


World Eater

by localoracle



Category: Final Fantasy XIV, Original Work
Genre: F/M, anyway, because I like writing short stories and it's a great way to explore, but mostly about my rp character, elaine has had.... a time, lots of homebrew, prob not but she'd want too, there's definitely influence from the starless sea, this is Not Canon, would she kill me irl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29486124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/localoracle/pseuds/localoracle
Summary: A collection of short stories about my RP character, Elaine
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

When she was a child, she stumbled into stories. 

She’d always had that trait, and there had been a time, untouched by venomous blood when her parent looked down at her and smiled and said she’d found trouble like nobles found coin, between cushions, tossed across the floor, and hidden between the folds of cloth. 

And the girl without a name who answered to a number had found her way into trouble again. Her love of books but her inability to reads leaves her hidden beneath a bar, sandwiched precariously between two kegs in a place that she should not have been able to reach, but had managed nonetheless, her tail curled tightly around her thigh. 

The bar was rowdy, but at least there were plenty of stories to go about. She picked them up like the little stones she found at the side of lakes, pocketing them away for later. The rounder ones, the stories told by those with more earnest expressions, she slipped into her right pocket, and the ones that were rougher, sharper, she slipped into her left where she hid all the other hard truths. 

It wasn’t easy to pick apart truth from lies in a story. After all, a story is both and neither at once. Yet, she had managed it back in Ul’dah, beneath the bright, beating sun as her hands slipped into the folds of another orphan’s pocket, of another starving man’s purse. They all told stories in the camps, and you found your target by who told the roundest one. They were the ones with the luck to spare, and those were the ones she followed into the dark. 

But in a tavern in Gridania, clothed in the soft cloaks given to the Conjurer’s students, she didn’t find herself following the round stories anymore. No, her attention caught on the rougher edges, the men and women who she saw herself reflected in like mirrors set to face. 

They have lovely stories. About monsters dying. About love winning. But for the past week, her gaze had snagged on the man with red eyes. His black hair was long, tied back with a thing, nondescript string, and he always dressed in fine black cloaks embroidered with flowers. Today, there were narcissus’ and he wore a blank expression as he gazed out over the tavern, back to the wall, glass of tea in one hand, and a shard of glass in the other. He holds it between gloved fingers, as he moves it around in front of him, always watching the bar through the glass. 

He paused right over her as if he could somehow see her in the shadows. The ghost of a smirk tugged on his lips, but she was quite sure she imagined it when he kept moving as if it hadn’t happened at all. 

Pocketing the glass, the man stood, setting aside his tea as he climbed atop the table in his black leather boots. He liked to put on shows, she discovered, when he told his stories that never ended. Starting in a beginning, reaching a middle, and then another middle.

It all reminded her of a fairy tale that had been read to her a long time ago. 

When the man speaks, his voice boomed across the room. “And here we have a story about a pirate set to die the very next day.” 

_ The pirate is a metaphor,  _ she said with him.  _ Everything is a metaphor, really.  _

There’s something enchanting about the smooth canter of his voice, the way his lips move around the words, the way his eyes light up like two pieces of rubies, glimmering in the dark. It captured the attention of the tavern, body, and soul, locked their eyes into place so much so that even the wandering thieves had to stop and listen.

The girl between the kegs would lean forward, face peeking out of the dark to get a better look. 

“And no, my sweets,” the man would continue, arms gesturing as he speaks, weaving magic into the air. “I will not say whether or not this is the same pirate who stole from the Parliament. Just know that he is locked in a cage and that his guard likes to sleep, and a girl brings him food every night leading up to his execution.” 

He moved on to describe the gentle lap of waves turning violent as the days pass. How sometimes the pirate thought the walls of his prison would collapse and he’d die in the rubble or drown or simply be whisked away. How the Sahagin whispered to him between the cracks in the stone of things that have yet to happen and were still coming. 

And the girl who came to see him every night, never neared the bars, but she stepped silently, quietly, never daring to awake the guard. As his death date loomed, she’d move closer, daring to grab the bars.

As the man spoke, the people in the tavern would lean closer. They want to know who the pirate is. What the metaphor is about. Why is he imprisoned? Will he hurt the girl? 

But she just wanted to know where the story was going, and if she could follow.

In her mind, she was the girl with quiet steps, and the man telling the story was the pirate. 

And she wanted to let him out.

The man winked at her as he continued speaking. As the girl in his story opened the cage for the pirate, and the guard woke up to an empty cage, and the girl kissed the pirate on the docks. 

They were to meet the next day. But the girl is taken and she dies in his place and the pirate sets off into a never-ending sea on a never-ending ship. 

The man launches into the pirate's expenditures. He tells of how the pirate went to an island shaped like the sun and found a magical gem that gave him…

She frowns as the man trails off. The story coming to a middle and then nothing. No ending. There’s never an ending. But she thinks as she looks up at the man, that he has it hidden somewhere inside him, behind the red of his eyes that matched the red of the girl’s blood. 

He hops down from the table, smiling at those who surround him with their flurry of questions, and she just stares as she sits back into her corner of darkness, hugging her side as she listens. 

The man is skilled in avoiding questions. He talks around them instead. 

What was the metaphor?

“The metaphor,” he hums. “A wonderful question. Interesting, I suppose, if you were to look at it from a different angle, but is that the question you’re asking? Is that what you really want to know? I’m afraid it’s not.” 

She listens, enamored, as the conversation shifts to something else entirely, and the man who’d asked the question is somehow admitting that he’d been in an affair. That he related to the pirate who was trapped, and that the woman with the quiet step was the woman he left behind to return to his wife. 

She did not get that message from the story, but perhaps that is the beauty of the vague. Anyone can insert themselves in and derive the same joy. 

Isn’t that what she did as she listened in the dark? Imagined herself as the girl kissing the pirate. Dying for the pirate. 

She thinks she should be bothered that she is okay with the idea of dying for the pirate, that the story did not bother her when the girl died, but the thought is distant and far away, tucked away in the darker part of her heart. 

When the man leaves, the girl slips out silently, following him into the dark night. She has done it often, always watching curiously as he lights a cigarette and blows it up as if he knows she’s waiting behind him. Two ruby eyes glittering in the dark. 

“It’s a little too late for you to be out today, sweets,” he says, not turning around to look at her. “There are monsters in the dark.” 

Little does he know one lurks quietly behind him, watching with wide, mismatched eyes. She is not sure how he heard her as she might as well be a ghost in this world. Her steps leaving behind no sound, no proof of existence. 

When she does not budge the man turns, stomps out his cigarette, and kneels before her so that they are eye level. He does not look at her the way people have always looked at her. With curiosity. With hunger. He looks at her as if he already knows her, as if he can see the dark stain on her soul, festering like a parasite. 

“Where is your fear?” 

She shakes her head. She has not felt fear in a long time or perhaps she had felt it only yesterday. But time blurs for her and things feel further away than they should. 

“And what am I to call you?” He narrows his eyes, scrutinizing her. “Little raven? I do tend to keep crows, but I suppose if you were in need…” He trails off, reaching out to adjust her cloak. “Ah,” he smiles languidly. “You’re already collared, but what a long leash they’ve given you. Perhaps they do not know what they have.” 

“Your story,” she blurts. “Where does it go?” 

The man just blinks at her. A bit stunned. “So, you do have a voice, and a mind.” He hums, running an appraising eye over her. “How lovely. I suppose I’ll figure out your name soon enough, little raven, but for now, fly home.” 

“Is that where the story goes?”

The man smirks. “If that is what you wish, I suppose. Do you know what I am?” 

The girl shakes her head, watching with wide, mismatched eyes, the spark of curiosity dancing behind her gaze. It is the most emotion she’s shown in a long time as her little gloved hands squeeze idly at her side. 

“I am a Keeper of Stories, a former librarian from the Great Gubal Library,” though his words are magnanimous, there’s a bitterness underlying it all as if he’s not that impressed as if he’s reciting an old story that has lost its flavor. “I collect stories, so that I may find the end hidden inside the sunless sea.” A pause. “Do you wanna see a magic trick?” 

She nods. 

A swirl of red light surrounds him, twisting and bright, and then is gone with the simple snap of his fingers. In his place, a boy around her age stands instead. The same red eyes and black hair. The same sardonic smile that does not quite fit this more childlike face. 

Elaine blinks up at him. He’s tall for a Hyur child, and his long black hair is tied back with a red ribbon that matches the decal of his black suit. He’s dressed too fine for Gridania. Too fine for anywhere she’s ever seen. But as she stares up at him, she finds herself wanting his name on her lips all of a sudden. 

“Fly home now, little Raven, let me see where we’re to meet again.” 

True to his words, the man follows her to the Conjurer’s guild, only he is not a man anymore, but a boy and he follows behind her with his hands in his pocket, and a blank expression to match her own. Masks slipping in the dark. 

It does not take her long to bring him to the dormitory where she’s been staying. No one is waiting with their lights on for the girl to return because no one has realized that she even slipped out. 

The man that is now a boy raises a perfectly arched brow. “A conjurer? How fitting.”

She only stares up at the building with her blank doe eyes, thinking about what it would be like to not return. They are kind enough, but she does not feel useful there when they constantly correct her for doing too much, but then ask her to take in the excess aether to correct balances like it does not leave her feverish for days. 

She wonders, dimly, if that is bad, but stops thinking about it almost immediately. Her only duty is to be useful. So, why has she brought the child that is not a child to the doors of the conjurer’s guild? 

“Well,” the boy trails off, plucking an apple out of the air as he shines it on his shirt before taking a bite. “What are you waiting for, little raven? Permission? Bring yourself back to your nest. I’ve seen enough.” 

She does not want to leave him, but he’s staring at her with blank red eyes, and her heart gives a little thump because the only thing she wants to do is follow the story. But there’s nothing but  _ knowing _ in his gaze, and she is only there to be useful. 

So, she flies back to her nest. 

###

The boy that is not a boy but is neither a man nor the pirate sits atop a tree branch with his broken glass hovering over the little raven. A bright white light erupting from her, tangling with the ambient aether, only to tug it in. A whirlpool into an abyss. 

And what are her limits? He wonders, idly, about experiments, but none feel quite right at the moment. He holds up the glass again, watching her through his lashes as she leans back against the trunk. She’s rather observant, occasionally glancing towards him with her wide, unseeing eyes as she steps silently behind her classmates like a ghost. 

Perhaps she is the key he’s been looking for. Perhaps he shall finally grab hold of fate’s heart and claim it for his own. 

“Seven!” The Padjal boy calls from the entrance, and to the boy that was not a boy’s utter shock, the little raven answered. 

_ Seven?  _ He hops from his tree, tucking the glass away as he slips through the shadows, hidden from prying eyes behind an illusion. Is this why she would not hand out her name because it was a number? 

Yet, the other children are not called by numbers, he notes, as he weaves between them, following the bright glow of the girl’s aether deeper into the Guild’s home though he very quickly comes to a stop when he’s face to face with her, hidden behind his magic, and she is raising up her shirt to show the Padjal boy her scar. 

The number seven is carved into her hip. It looks to stretch from her upper thigh to her hip. The lines are clean and even, but the dent is there, white against the slight olive tint to her otherwise pale skin. 

He does not know why, but he turns sharply on his heel to leave. He is no fool. His life has stretched far longer than any others. That is the scar that Ul’dah’s slavers carve into their stock, marking when they were acquired. 

And they have not bothered to call her anything else. 

How boring. 

He waits outside the guild, leaning against the trunk of a tree as he waits for the little raven to come out. When she does, he steps cooly in front of her, dropping his spell. 

She does not react, not even a blink of surprise, as she gazes up at him with those wide, curious eyes. He scowls, but how ridiculous would it be for him to back out of his decision now. “Hello, little raven,” he drawls. “I have a proposition.” 

“A proposition?” she says, sounding out the words with a tilt of her head.

“I'd like to take you as my apprentice,” he says simply, holding his hand out magnanimously as he smirks down at her. "Would you like to follow the store, little raven?"


	2. Thorne's Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wowzers this is rough so it might get updated but i needed an idea of what's happening to my girl

It is only when the door to her room shuts behind her that the tears come. Never in her life has she felt so full and so empty at once, a yawning pain deep inside her chest threatening to swallow her up entirely. No matter how hard she tries, she cannot seem to shake it. Cannot bring herself to feel nothing at all. 

It does not help that her little apartment in the company house is littered with things she’d gotten for Silas in the hopes that he’d come over more. Biographies and jeweler tools. Even a few stones she’d asked Rory for when he took a mining trip for Yun. Raw and left on a little glass tray for Silas to play with as he saw fit. 

Her eyes burn, and she rubs at them furiously, sinking to the floor. 

_ Unworthy of a man such as him.  _

She knows. She knows and has always known and had gone back to old habits of stealing luck. But this time she tried to steal moments of time, and maybe that is where she went wrong.

They were moments that were not hers. Stolen only temporarily as she tried to fill a space in the world that would never be hers.

Her hand clutches the cloth above her heart, her breath coming far too quickly as she squeezes her eyes shut against the sensation. She did not understand it. She did not understand why everything felt so sharp and loud and like it was falling apart around her. 

Why is it so hard to breathe? 

The door to her bedroom flies open. A dark silhouette filling the frame. “The raven returns to their nest, I see.” A step into the dim light from the skylight, starlight limning the lines of his face in stark contrast. “Or should I say, Dove, seeing how far you’ve been pushing yourself for those people.” 

Elaine tries to say his name, tries to speak, but her breath is coming too quickly, choking her. All she is able to do is stand, gesturing helplessly to her heart as if Thorne will somehow fix it. Wide, doe eyes pleading in the dim light. 

He just chuckles, hands sinking into the pocket of black pants as he strides forward. His dark hair tied back with a red ribbon that matches the one Silas has. Elaine had forgotten just what he looked like in the year he was gone. It seems for their meeting he has taken the face of Alexander Thorne, the half elezen child of Nathaniel Thorne, and the face that Elaine has known since she was a child in the conjurer’s guild. The one that has grown with her over the years. 

But his eyes remain the same, two rubies inlaid into noble features. Startling in its beauty, made even more perfect by the two scars on his cheek, like gold poured into the cracks. Though… on Alexander’s face the scars are practically invisible. Elaine is only able to see them as she subconsciously searches for them. 

He comes to a stop just in front of her. The familiar scent of jasmine and vanilla and books seems to wrap around her as he studies her through a hooded gaze looking entirely displeased. “You’re back late. Your hair is different. My desk is broken, and my broach is in your bag, and you, my sweet, have been rather naughty, haven’t you?” 

Elaine still cannot breathe, but she knows it’s not from magic. It’s from something else entirely, but she just stares up at her master as he paces before her, rather theatrically, as everything he does is with intent. 

“I said you could join a company. I said you could join Rosam because Aston joined, and you were to report to him, but I hear that you have stopped confiding in our little swordsman. So, of course, I had to come back, and check on you. Can’t have you leaving your nest, can I? And what did I find, sweets?” 

Elaine does not answer. She cannot. 

Thorne comes to an abrupt stop beside her coffee table where she’d set out the jeweling supplies for Silas, his hands comes up twisting, and the table splinters as his desk did, the jewels shattering across the rug. 

Elaine lets out a choking sob. 

Yet… the sound only serves to fuel Thorne’s anger as he sweeps a hand over the top of the fireplaces sending the blue roses into the flames. Her trellis, splinters in on itself, bookshelves falling as her apartment begins to shake violently. 

In the midst of the chaos, Thorne advances on her, pushing her up against the wall as a hand goes around her throat, tilting her chin so that she is looking into his eyes. 

Oh, and such fury burned there. 

“What is it you’ve been going by lately, Elaine?” he hisses, face inches from hers. “Aster? El? Or, what was it?” he gives a bitter laugh, pressing his brow against her brow as a finger traced the markings on her cheeks. It is shockingly gentle against the rest of him. “Starlight?” he coos so sweetly ichor might as well drip from his voice. 

Elaine grasps at his hand trying to loosen it, but he holds tight, squeezing ever so slightly as tears ran down her cheek, spilling onto his hand. “Sometimes, I think,” he says, reciting her journal. “I think I want to drown in him.” 

“Please, stop,” Elaine manages to whimper. 

Thorne’s eyes narrow. “Your leash has been far too long, I think.” 

The door to her bedroom flies open again, revealing shattered vases and food smeared across the ground. Everything she’d spent months collecting, the first room she’s ever decorated all by herself, lay in ruins behind him. 

How easily she lives by his whims. It makes her think of Lysander’s words again. A slave that was not brought, but had given herself freely to the whims of a man she met in a tavern. How did she ever expect Silas to want to be with her? To love her as she realizes she loves him.

She does not think she will ever feel that way about another person again. Not the way she feels for Silas, and yet it is too late to tell him. It would be selfish, really. 

Thorne’s hold on her throat lessens, and by some miracle, she is able to swallow a lungful of air as she kneels in the ruins of her room. Tears blur her vision as she stares down at dark blue petals. 

Thorne begins to walk to the back, leaving her discarded on the floor. 

Briefly, she wonders if she’ll be able to clean everything up. But then Thorne returns, a dagger in hand, and he kneels in front of Elaine, a sardonic smile twisting his lips as he presses the tip to her throat. 

“Do you remember when you said you would die for me?” 

Elaine nods, and the dagger pierces skin. Blood drips ever so slowly down her neck as Thorne watches with dark, hollow eyes.

“You were supposed to tell me what happened. You were supposed to ask for permission. You were not supposed to get attached… I mean, really,  _ Elaine?  _ Have I taught you nothing?” His smile grows and the dagger drops from her neck, hanging at his side as Thorne reaches up to gather her hair in a fist. He yanks her head to the side. “Did you really think that a man like Silas Alouette would love you or Primrose or Luma? All these little names and you’ve fooled yourself into thinking they care for you. It’s rather pathetic really.” He lifts the dagger again, pressing it to the nape of her neck before ripping through the hair. Long strands fall around her, sparkling in the starlight. “Oh,” he coos. “How sad. What was it Nomu told you that day? I like your hair long? Or are you going to be more upset because Silas can’t play with it anymore. Not that he’d want too. But just so we’re clear of course.” 

Elaine simply stares up at Thorne, unsure what to do, as she trembles. He has never been this angry before. 

“It’s funny actually, little dove, but when I was reading through your journal, I noticed that everything that has gone wrong lately has been… well,” he laughs like he’s thought of something particularly clever, eyes sparkling with delight. “Your fault. If only you had kept your distance as you were supposed too, or perhaps it was when you put poor Primrose to sleep. Against her will! I was rather shocked, sweets, and you just… kept going. Really I think the company might be a bad influence on you. Everyone spouting all this nonsense about love and care… They really just want to use your magic as the guild did as you’ve been writing about. You… You’re so intuitive, little dove, yet you chalk your correct feelings up as fear.” 

Her heart just stutters painfully, horrifically loud in her ears. Unworthy. Unworthy. The words are whispered between beats. Unworthy. Unworthy. 

She is a thief. An orphan. A slave. A monster. 

How could she dare to reach for something she did not deserve? After everything she’s done… How dare she reach for someone as bright as Silas or Primrose or Luma. 

“If you hadn’t done such stupid things, none of them would be hurt. I’m even quite certain Silas would be fine if your journal is any indication. It is… the locket after all that took the hits, yes?” Thorne squats in front of her, yanking up her wrist so he could look at the bracelet and ring. “How curious. I’m feeling generous, it seems. You may keep these trinkets, but only as reminders of what you’ve done. I want you to look at them, and I want you to know that you hurt each of these people simply by existing. I’ve spent too long keeping you safe from the world, keeping people safe from you, for you to ruin that, Elaine. We’re going to have to start over.” 

“Start over,” Elaine echoes the words, staring at the jewelry. Faintly, she can feel Thorne’s magic tugging on her wrist, pulling her under some sort of sleep or charm. She cannot tell, and she does not fight it.

“Good girl,” he grins pressing a kiss to her wrist and he bends to scoop her up. “When we go home, you can go back to being my raven, and you will stay there until I decide what to do with you, yes? I need you after all, sweets, and I can’t have you ruining the name I gave you.” 

Elaine’s eyes are heavy as she stares up at Thorne, head resting against his chest. “Am I going back to the cage?” 

For the splittest of seconds, Thorne seems… remorseful. Not that Elaine would notice as there is too much magic in her system, and keeping her eyes open is a struggle. But something does soften in his gaze as he glances down at her before he simply smirks at her. 

“Of course, you are.” 


End file.
